Walking home.

You lock me in that room, a box only three-by-three,

and, there in the darkness, you let me be

for none to see.

When out of that box I am lead,

it is with a leash round my neck and a black bag over my head

to cover where my hair was shred.

You drag me around for walk and water,

you see not your son, but a daughter;

she is what you birthed, she is what you taught her.

And you when you dress me in silks you made on your loom,

I wish desperately to return to my little room,

where darkness has died and instead colours bloom.